The Scalpel & The Shiv
by Elizabeth Cords
Summary: Slash - Dexter/Riddick. What would happen if they met? AU Miami of the future... Breaking the sociopathic mold of my two favorite killers. Dark & Bloody eventually.
1. Chapter 1

_Welcome, dear readers, to a very twisted, naughty idea that came into my head while writing "Home." Since the ending mirrored a bit of "Dexter in the Dark" my muse got evil and started comparing my two favorite fictional murderers. And it occurred to me that they stand on oposite sides of the law. I did a quick search, but found no cross-over slash. _

_This is my first slash, and only my second fanfic, so... don't expect much. I'm a detail hound though, so we won't get to the good bits for a while. Chapter 3 at least. Enjoy!_

* * *

**Riddick**

He should have never taken that first contract. He hadn't worked for Wiskel in years, didn't even know how the contractor had tracked him down. Said something that he had. Lured him in with good money and an even better fake id. Had to be good if you were gonna base yourself out of the inner systems, much less fucking Terra. And as the old dog had said, not many mercs would think to look for him in the front fucking yard of the interstellar justice conglomeration. And there was always plenty of dirty work to be done in politics. Celebrities may ghost to the settlement worlds for privacy, but there was something to be said for the relative anonymity of the overcrowded, half-dead, sin-soaked pit of the Universe that had spawned humanity. So now he'd spent the last few months shacked up in the glittery, tramp-stamp heat hovering over the ass-crack of the world. Miami. Wiskel sent him another job in Cuba, he could fuck himself, preferably with one of those Media Noche sandwiches he was always chewing on.

For now though the credits were coming up clean, and Riddick didn't really care who he was Xing. It was all politics, which meant that everyone was guilty of something. Dirty work, but he was only taking one job a week. The rest of the time was spent on the beach, sipping cold drinks and playing touristo. He'd have enough banked soon to afford a ship that wasn't a piece-of-shit black-market Frankenstein job of stolen parts. Might even have enough to find a doctor to get the shine job reversed. Meantime, he was taking advantage of the pretty boys and girls who offered him some serious relief after being stuck out in the black alone so long. Tourist town, so most everyone was either a professional or a tourist like himself. Made his policy of get off - get out fairly easy to enforce. He didn't want complications.

* * *

**Dexter**

"It's complicated," Vince Masuka looked up at Sgt Batista. "I'm not saying it's professional, but whoever did it knew what they were doing. But get Morgan in here to check the spatter, not that there's much of it."

"Is he back on yet? Thought he was still off mourning or some shit." Angel Batista squinted against the hot Miami sun, taking in the parking lot.

"Yeah, came in with donuts this morning and everything. Wouldn't know his wife just bit it a few weeks ago. But he's a strange guy."

"Watch it Masuka! " Deb Morgan smacked him upside his bald head. "That's my brother you're talking about."

"Shut up both of you!" Lt. Laguerta hissed as she stomped over to the murder scene Vince was crouched over. "There are reporters everywhere, soon as the call went out on public channel coms that Vice Attorney General Takay was killed. This is highly political, and we can't screw this up!" She glanced back at the mob of people, several newstation vid coms hovering at the police line. First a controversial state assemblyman, then a special interest lobbyist who was widely known to sleep with married politicians and then use the affair to gain their political cooperation. Now this. It was like a serial killer had started slashing at the dark, dirty underbelly of the political machines in Miami. That none of these people had any political party affiliations in common only made it weirder. But... one was a random murder, two a coincidence, three... spelled serial.

"Morgan!" she hollered. Deborah winced, since she was only standing a few feet behind the Lieutenant.

"Yeah, Chief?"

"I want you and Batista to pull together a team. This is the third public figure killing in as many weeks. There has to be a pattern. Even if we can't see it, I'm sure the v-loggers and newspips will draw that conclusion."

"Actually, Chief, this is five... "

"What?"

"Ran a search this morning... there was a Cuban Communist Party leader stabbed up in St. Petersburg at a speaking engagement a month ago. Same M.O. - found him in his hotel room. But local PD chalked it up to political rivalry. And down in the Keys, had a vacationing Interstellar Corrections Administrator with known mob ties whacked just as cleanly. Most mob hits don't get that stab-happy."

"There was another nice one down in Cuba a few weeks back," Masuka put in thoughtfully - gesturing at the corpse in front of him. "Same kinda short deep cuts as this. Purposeful artery work, violent and efficient, and these knife marks - can't tell until I get them examined back at HQ, but they aren't store-bought. Think this perp makes his own. Better than your average slam-quality shivs, but..."

"Since when have you been studying knifework, Masuka?" Deb eyed him banefully. Couldn't trust him to be helpful like that. Volunteer information without a lewd comment thrown in. Vince pushed his glasses up his nose, looking insulted.

"Since I'm writing a paper on the intimate nature of stabbings and personality traits of multiple-offending killers. Stabbing are usually crimes of passion. Very intimate, violations of..."

"Stop right there, Masuka, or you're getting hit again, cameras or no cameras," Deb warned.

"Morgan and I will run with that, the knife-work political-office angle," Batista put in as Laguarda bristled to yell at her squabbling homicide team. "I'll bet we find more if we cross-reference the local international and state databases. We'll get Dex in on the blood spatter angle, see if we can work up if this is a single suspect or not."

"Did someone say my name? My ears are burning..." Dexter Morgan strolled up to the scene, snapping on a pair of gloves and clicking on his headcam. "Hello sister dear, long time no see." Deb stared at him, incredulous.

"Yeah, like, since your wife's funeral? You're goddamn cheerful today."

"Nothing like work to take your mind off mourning." Dexter shrugged and tried to look slightly less pleased. He was tired of pretending to be devastated. Playing a grieving spouse was not a role he'd had time to study for, and unfortunately, the more practiced mask of cheerful coworker was a default act for him. Probably explained the strange looks he got this morning while making the rounds on donut duty. No one had said anything untoward, but he could always count on Deb for a straightforward, unrestrained reaction. He avoided her stare and crouched down next to Vince. "What we got?"

"Double stab wounds, looks like the vic was on his way out to his car. Perp hit the abdominal aorta, left of the spine. Messy but quick." Vince said. Dexter nodded.

"Sweet spot. Looks like a single entry mark, direction of the spray on his clothes." He started snapping pictures. "Hard to hit unless you know precisely what you're aiming for. Professional, and vicious."

"So you think it's a professional too?" Laguerta put her hands on her hips and frowned. "Great. This is screaming 'serial.'" Dexter's head snapped up.

"What?"

"Third killing like this in the Miami area in the last few weeks," Batista volunteered. Dexter knew this, but he knew he was supposed to be 'out of the loop.' One thing the grief sites all agreed on was that people in mourning did not pay attention to things outside themselves. He couldn't look like he still scanned the front pages daily for crimes that indicated the calling card of potential... playmates. Front page bloodcrimes were his own personal ads. This one already screamed _"SWM - professional with artistic streak, built for speed; fond of silver, intimate late night one-on-ones, and hide and seek; longing for moonlit dancing with that special someone. " _

"Fifth, if you count the state area," Deb added.

"Sixth, at least." Vince corrected. Deb kicked him in the thigh.

"Whatever," Laguerta shook her head. "Morgan, I want you up to speed on this. I know you're coming off leave, but we need your expertise on this. You have a sixth sense for this serial stuff, even I know that."

"Okay..." Dexter tried to look confused, as if he had no idea about the other stabbing victims. The Dark Passenger rustled and chuckled in the back of his mind. _He'd_ already seen the pattern, was searching for a partner for the next dance. Dexter cuffed the shadow silently. He'd just been out to play a few weeks ago. Rita's death had given him plenty of alone time with no responsibilities and expectations to tip-toe around. He was truly sorry Rita was gone, he was fond of her, in his way. And the disguise she provided him. But married life had been... constricting for his nighttime hobby.

The Passenger had nearly jumped for joy when he'd been allowed an extended sabbatical these last few weeks. He'd actually booked an impromptu trip off-planet. Chasing down a top-10-most-wanted lister to Rigel IV. Just a quick jaunt, some time to look at the scenery, sample a few fine restaurants, mourn a bit... and dance that midnight waltz with a murdering slaver who ran a rather dark fetish club just north of Miami. The man had dumped one too many bodies in the swamps north of town, and when the police came looking... he'd ghosted off planet. Dexter really wasn't one for travel - much less intersteller, the moons were never the same gibbous flirt it was here in his backyard. But... it had been an unplanned opportunity he couldn't pass up.

And now he'd come home to find a new slice-n-dice man tap-dancing in his front yard. Nothing coy about this one. Practically screaming for attention. And, Dexter couldn't wait to get his hands on the files back at the office. If the unreleased details of his work were all this fine, this would be a deliciously challenging two-step. The artful simplicity and force of the kills had a brutal efficiency. Intelligence. Someone in complete control of his own dark urges, but utterly blaze about being caught, by his public action. This was not a fetishist, but an artist none the less. Savage. The Passenger actually purred and licked lips in anticipation. This hunt would be fun.

* * *

_Also: I should just say I'm leaving Cody and Astor out of this. Mainly because I haven't decided if they're dead too, or just got shipped off to grandma's. Either way, they don't figure into this._


	2. Chapter 2

**Riddick:**

The hunt had been fun. Somewhat anti-climatic in execution, but Xing the guy in a public place had been a bit of a twist. It was dark, no cameras or lights in the parking lot, but wide open spaces. It was like pouncing on a zebra in the middle of a meadow, dumb-ass animal didn't even have a herd to run back to.

Still, assassination in the open wasn't a good idea. Even if the beast had enjoyed the opportunity for an open display, wasn't an urge he should give into again. Riddick dumped his gear on the dresser and looked around the room. He should have checked out yesterday. But hadn't planned to take out the target yet, it was just recon. But seeing the spineless suit scurrying nervously back to his car after being dropped off from whatever dirty midnight deal had transpired... the animal side instinctively took the opportunity to vent frustration at having been caged for hours silently watching Takay's car in the vacant parking lot.

Riddick moved to the bed, flipping on his com unit and logging in. Yup, Wiskel was good as his word. Credits all accounted for. Few more jobs and he could get off this rock. Find something less conspicuous to sate his bloodlust on.

He'd be lying if he didn't admit the high profile contracts weren't a challenge. The animal in him purred, reliving the hunt in flashes and stretched proudly. Primal killing urge satisfied, it lazily kneaded the prefrontal lobes, wanting another hunger sated. Sex and death. Yeah, his cock twitched. He didn't get off on killing, that was sick, but he'd figured out a long time ago that as the adrenaline rush and primal satisfaction wore off, his body began craving another high to replace the fading bio-chemical charge. Mating was just as instinctive. Women had a basic craving for sweet and sour, salt and chocolate. He got horny after a kill. Wasn't always a hunger he could satisfy, but... he glanced at the clock. Still early enough to hit a club, find an easy lay. He was in the mood for a Latin girl maybe, or a tight-assed lanky college boy. Something hot and fine he could sink his dick into, get his rocks off good a few times. Shouldn't be hard to claim it was his last night in town, kick 'em out early when he relocated.

Something in him whispered he might want to lay low for a bit, but he ignored it. There was nothing to link him to the crimes thus far. He didn't leave evidence.

* * *

**Dexter:**

"This guy doesn't leave much evidence, does he? If it is one guy." Masuka muttered as he hovered over Dexter's com.

"Oh, it's one guy," Dexter answered thoughtfully. "What he doesn't leave in physical, is written in the blood. I ran the simulations on our three confirmed cases, I'm checking against the other political cases in the last six months. Got two down in Mexico I'm running now. Your one down in Cuba came back a possible match, if messier. Seemed a bit hasty. Good spot, Vince."

"Possible? I'd say the M.O. is dead on." Vince crossed his arms, tapped his foot. He wanted the bragging rights on this one.

"Yeah... it would be if it wasn't such a hack-n-slash. If it was him, he got interrupted. I mean, the force marks match - depth and strength of the blows" Dexter pointed at the data on the screen. "But if it's our guy, he was using different blades."

"But they look custom right? Modified or homemade? Not traceable off-the-shelf stuff? Prison shivs or self-sharpened?" Vince was bouncing on his feet, excited to use his slam slang.

"Prison shivs? You think this guy has done time?" Dexter swiveled in his chair. "I can add that to the possible profile write-up, but I was thinkin' accuracy like this is more a military trait. Highly trained, maybe Space Marines." Vince snorted.

"Lucky Doakes ain't around to hear that. He'd probably gut you for that, or at least bite your head off in a lecture about how his former unit saved the universe... blah blah blah." Vince eyed the screen again. "So whachu got worked up so far?"

"Well, male, good shape, strong even for his size, which I'm putting at about 6'1" to 6'3"- that's based on the spatter patterns," Dexter winked at Vince. " Probably 30 - 45 years old. Put in possible military service, but you're right that if this is contract killing, he's gonna have to have access to the criminal element, and nothing like an ex-con to know how to work the angles.

I just can't get over the textbook efficiency of the dissection. Not many criminals are smart enough to know this many kill spots on the human body. Maybe one or two - but variety and opportunity don't always give you a clean neck or heart shot. This is medical school knowledge of human anatomy. Seems kinda wasted on an assassin. Think it'd be easier to use a gun." He shook his head.

"Nah. Guns leave trace, you can match bullets. This guy likes what he does. Knives are much more intimate. This is one sick puppy." Vince shuttered theatrically.

Dexter suppressed a smirk. The Passenger chuckled. _If only you knew Vince_. He preferred a scalpel. One little cut before the killing blow. But yes, knives _were_ much more intimate. He hoped he'd have a chance to discuss bladesmanship with this new playmate before their dance was done. He hoped too, that the other would appreciate Dexter's own skills when the knife came down on him. Really, his brother had been the last one to truly appreciate the artistry of his work. Such a lonely life, the artist's way. At least this fellow knife-wielding maniac would have the joy of someone acknowledging his talent in his lifetime. Even if that was minutes before it was cut short.

"Dex? Earth to Morgan!" Vince's voice finally cut through his pleasant day-dream of moonlit tables and flashing steel. Dexter looked up.

"Huh?"

"I _said_, 'do you wanna read the paper I'm working on?' This perp may make or break my theory on multiple-offending stabbers." Vince looked smug. Dexter shook his head.

"Nah, got too much going on here. And, you know... personal life stuff." Masuka had been all set to be rankled, but his face softened.

"Yeah. Sorry. Sorting out Rita's stuff huh? Dead is never the end of it, is it?"

"Nope." Dexter stared at the screen. This was probably a safe reaction. He'd never mastered looking sad. Contrition, confusion, even guilt - when it suited him. But sadness, grief. Nope. He had to settle for blank.

One thing he couldn't understand about his fellow human beings, their inability to accept the inevitability of death. True, a head-on car crash wasn't exactly due-time, but Rita hadn't suffered the indignities of old age and being abandoned by her family in some automated rest home.

Cody and Astor were shipped off to grandma's while Dear Daddy Dexter dealt with the grief of losing his bride. His mother-in-law had never liked him, and was contesting the adoption paperwork that hadn't quite been finalized. She had temporary custody. It would be remedied soon enough, but for now, he looked at it as a holiday. He liked the children, he truly considered them his own, their darling dark side only adding to their charm. But handling them full time without Rita was going to be a chore. And right now, not one he was ready to deal with, especially with the Passenger already kicking him from the back seat like an irritated, impatient child squirming in its carseat.

"I'm going to go back and check out the scene again," he finally said, pushing back his chair. "See if I can get a few more shots of the area, see if there's anything we missed." Vince nodded, grateful for a way out of the awkward silence. "Tell Batista for me?" Vince nodded again and ducked out the door. Dexter smiled briefly to himself. It was always nice when work and his personal hobby coincided. He could case the area, maybe find a clue about his new dance partner. That the information may never make it into a report, oh well. Justice would be served. It always was.

--------------------------

Dexter mused to himself as he drove across town, some people hated the murderous Miami traffic, he found it soothing. Everyone out for number 1, everyone willing to kill for that one car length a lane over. Car horns, expletives and death threats, all very primal. Something he understood. A time to feel at peace with what he was, human after all. He just chose his victims more carefully than most, and didn't use 4000 lbs of steel and rubber to accomplish his goal. Some people were foodies, audiophiles, fashionistas... he was just more picky about whose blood he spilled on the highway of life.

And that was something his new dance partner didn't have particularly good taste in. Politicians of all things. Then again, his predilection was exactly why he'd ended up on discerning Dexter's dance card. His style was flashy, aggressive, but his movements were precise and very exacting.

Dexter didn't know how he felt about killing for money, if indeed, this was an assassin. The variety of political targets had made it clear this was not a motivated idealist out to advance an agenda for his party. And despite the obvious dirty dealings of his victims, it also didn't smack of a vigilante, no comic-book Dark Defender here. Military or Company agents certainly weren't public when taking out their trash, they did everything they could to disguise their dirty business and keep simple public servants like Miami PD out of their garbage pile. No, corporate espionage didn't stick a blade in your back and leave your body out to be found. Vaporized or dumped in deep space, light years from home, but not left out for the gulls and alligators.

So, that left contract killing. Which meant this was a soldier of fortune. There was that military vibe to it. Perhaps personal security or merchant marine, but the efficiency smacked of training. A conservation of time and movement, go for the death blow, move on. Masuka was right that blades were intimate, they were also quiet, and fairly efficient. No loud bangs, no moving parts to jam up, no extra things like fuel or bullets or power cells. Snick, slash, walk away. Let the pressure of the blood and pumping of the victim's heart be what actually kills him. Hit an artery and the bleed out is often quicker than it takes to scream. That's why he had a job, interpreting the fountaining of the red water of life. It just depended how much force was applied, where and how many times.

But hunting for money. He hadn't waltzed with an assassin before. Unless you counted Doakes. And well, _he_ hid behind the fact that the government told him to do it for many years. That it was honorable and just, the sacrifices he made for his country. That he liked it, became a cop for the right to continue to exert force on his fellow man while hiding behind society's mask of necessity... well, that was just cheating.

So this one's career path was a bit more twisted than his own. It would make for a change from all the psycho-sexual predators, the gang-bangers and black widows. Perhaps they could talk shop, exchange tips. No, probably not. He'd tried that with his brother. He'd tried to have... friends. It didn't work. Killers were loners by nature. The Passenger rankled a bit at this, irritated for some reason. That was a change too. Did he know something? Was he not sharing? Dexter didn't like it when his companion didn't share.

Well, perhaps this hunting game would make him feel more cooperative. He pulled the car into the parking lot, flashing his laminate at the lone guard standing watch over the taped off crime scene, and parked on the far side of the lot, which was screened by a windbreak of trees. It was a good watching place, and a good place to start.


	3. Chapter 3

_Sorry, I don't mean to neglect this. I try to update once a week... but It's proving harder than I thought to bring these two together. Dex is the reluctant one. *snicker* Needs justification. Still no good stuff, but we're almost there... sorry if the last bit is a mess, I'm a bit schnookered as I write /post this. But 3 people have added this to their story update (*blush* thank you) so I kinda feel obligated to post.  
_

* * *

**Dexter:**

It had seemed a good place to start- the crime scene, and the wooded area surrounding, but it yielded nothing. Not even a gum wrapper. Definitely professional. If the perp had done recon, as Dexter always did, it would have been from the shadowed trees ringing the parking lot.

He found several likely spots, good spots for surveying the crime scene-the spot the victim's car had been parked. It didn't matter, there were no clues. The Passenger hissed a bit. _What​​?_Dexter stopped. He was missing something... something with this spot. The watching. The recon... it took a second to get. _Yes,_ _this was a professional, he did recon_. Watched from the shadows like silent surveying slasher Dex. But how was this useful? Dexter prodded the Passenger, earning only an encouraging lopsided grin, a _you already should know this_ look. How was knowing the perp's penchant of stalking useful? Unless he knew the next victim, it wasn't really possible to observe the observer... or was it? Hairs rose on the back of his neck. That was it, wasn't it? Knowing the next victim...

In most cases, it wasn't possible. Most serial killers had a 'type'- a set of characteristics a victim must meet before they became the victimized. And even knowing the modus operandi of a killer didn't lessen the pool of potential persons much. But this one killed for money. Didn't care much for who it was, or why the hit had been called. Just as long as the credits came in. And since the best way to put a hit out was still the anonymity of the unrestricted net channels... with a little research, and a lot of luck, bait could be set out. Especially when one had just been named sole beneficiary of their dearly departed spouse's life insurance policy. That had been a tidy sum. Now all he really needed was a patsy politician that was easy to watch. Someone with plenty penchant for dirty deeds, but not enough intelligence or personal security to be properly paranoid about vendettaed violence being visited on their head.

Yes, Dexter thought, as he walked back to his car, all he needed was a bit of backdoor net savy and a little luck. The Passenger beamed like the Cheshire cat, all teeth. Bait the trap, and sit back in the shadows and wait.

* * *

**Riddick:**

Riddick sat back in the shadows and waited. The target had been inside the no-tell motel room for over an hour with that uptown hooker. He didn't really have the look of a guy who could last more than five minutes, even with that nice piece of ass he'd paid for. And this side of town, the rooms rented by the hour, so he was a cheap bastard to boot. Idiot really, since he owned enough property to set up a damn apartment to keep that hot blond in. Then again, maybe it was smart to keep it off the books, away from where anyone might recognize him. Whatever. Why was he analyzing the soon-to-be ex-state developments commissioner's thought profess anyway? This was the third time he'd seen the man pick up an uptown call girl and drive her to a shitty cheap motel for an hour's rendezvous before going home.

Seemed like a twice a week habit. Probably used a service. Girls like the ones he'd picked up didn't just stand on the corner waiting. Tuesdays and Thursdays. Probably told his wife he had committee meetings then. Called a cab for the girl after about an hour, then cleaned up and went home. Some guys just made it too easy. Then again, there probably wasn't a lot of brain power left over when you were busy selling government development projects under the table. Laundering that bribery money, even with property investments of your own, wasn't a small-time business. Not on the scale this guy worked. Wasn't exactly killing babies on Betelgeuse, but someone was pissed enough to call the hit. That this guy had time to fit in a twice-weekly affair, well... took some planning. Sloppy, but the cleaners had been called. For all Riddick knew, the wife had called the hit.

He checked his gear for the 900th time, and then his watch. A taxi pulled up a moment after he expected it, and the leggy blond emerged from Room 103. She was some nice eye candy. He'd briefly fantasized slipping in the room before she left, Xing the target, and then tappin' that ass in the glowy aftermath before he had to kill her too. No witnesses policy after all. But there'd been no instructions on casualties other than the target, and Wiskel chose him because he worked clean... more or less.

So it wasn't worth it. Worth thinkin' about while he waited, yes, but... nah. Shit, this guy had to be home for dinnertime anyway, he'd have plenty of time to hit the clubs tonight and find something satisfying later.

Anticipation was half the fun, and he'd already moved to a new room today. Now it was almost zero hour.

* * *

**Dexter:**

It was almost zero hour, Dexter knew it when the man had moved to a new room today. Anticipation was half the fun, but the Passenger was getting itchy for the dance. It had been fun flirting from the shadows, watching his destined stalk his own prey, a cat n cat game of who's the better killer.

The man wasn't exactly what Dexter had expected. He'd expected what? a battered war vet as ugly as his profession? A comic-book caricature of eye-patch and hook-hand, scars and lost limbs from the Wailing Wars or other back-system scuffles? A paranoid ex-con jacked on crank, shaking and scratching a straggly beard and dread-matted hair? No... not that. But this man... dressed in black, shaved head, muscular and lithe... a panther prowling the dark oily pools of shade, moonlight slicing off the angles of his handsome tan face. And the goggles... how strange. Sunglasses at night, like that ancient pop song? Some sort of fetish? Eyes were the windows to the soul, after all. Perhaps this ravishing reaper didn't care to lay eyes on living prey. Perhaps he moonlighted... no daylighted as a machinist on the docks?

Dexter had more curious questions than answers to this one. And the Passenger had just _squirmed_... it had been so strange, watching in rapt admiration as the dark Adonis had stalked his prey. So silent, so controlled... a match for the Dark Defender himself. No nervousness, no fidgeting, no obsessive behavior or rituals, just a marble statute studying his quarry for hours. The Passenger was whining like a moony teenager, dreaming about what he was doing even now, as Dexter jimmied the lock to the motel room.

He needed proof. Harry's Code proof. Watching him watching the bait wasn't iron clad. That Dex had inside knowledge from his sister's time with the Vice Squad about the Development Minster's personal preferences in sleazy hookers, Debra's never-ending tirade about the justice of bringing down corrupt officials like him, career-killers or not, had just been a convenient coincidence.

For all Dexter knew, this guy was security for the girls, or a pimp, or someone's jealous boyfriend. He could even be the bait's spouse's pool boy-toy. Dex could sit around and wait for the knife to come down on the Development Minster... but, that violated a Harry Rule - no killing of innocents. He wasn't, really, allowed to bait a trap like that. Even with good intentions. So while tall, dark and deadly was busy on recon, Dexter did his own proof gathering.

Not much to see in the darkened room as Dexter entered the room. A king size bed, a table and chairs, a dresser. A portable com unit sat next to the bed, Dexter ignored it, probably password locked, not worth messing with except as a last resort. The duffel bag on the dresser seemed a better bet.

Noting position, Dexter opened the bag carefully. Clothes mostly, and underneath, a canvas case containing - _Bingo. _Blades. And sharpening tools. He took the canvas carefully in gloved hands, and unrolled it slowly, admiring the handiwork of the half-dozen blades. He reached into his pocket for his work tools, cotton swabs to test for human blood first. He swabbed the first blade, waiting for the tell-tale color change as he applied the solution. Yup. Human.

He pulled the DNA analyzer, already loaded with the profiles of several of the suspected victims. Expensive laser tool he'd borrowed from work. He ran the laser over the blade briefly - and it green-lit a positive match on... Omar Donatello - the Interstellar Corrections Administrator who was murdered down in the Keys a month ago. It was one thing to wipe your knives down, but most people didn't think to sterilize their collection. Really, that was all the proof the Code required. Positive ID. Coincidence knocked down into the millionth percentiles. The Passenger smiled, the midnight play-date could be finalized.

Dexter carefully replaced the knife, moved the bag back to it's position, and taking stock of the room, exited the way he came. His prey would be back in a few hours, probably flush from a new kill. Tonight was a full moon, and if he prepared the dance studio in time, tonight he could finally offer to lead his Dark Adonis down the shadowy path of justice. A moonlit serenade for two. Too bad only one of them would walk away.


	4. Chapter 4

**Riddick:**

Only one of them could walk away. It was the way of the world. Riddick's world, anyway. Kill or be killed, especially with the animal side in charge.

It had been fairly clean. Catch the idiot in the bathroom. Dumbass didn't even lock the door when the girl left. Not that a locked door would have stopped him. Just one more serendipitous slip that made the primal law of the jungle easier to enforce. In and out in two minutes. The owner of the dump would probably thank him for leaving the guy to bleed out in the bathtub. If he knew.

Riddick walked the half mile back to where he'd parked his rental. Back before sunset. Time to shower and change, hit the beach front bars by 21:00. If he'd picked a place closer to where he'd gotten the rental, he could have dumped it tonight, but, he should pick a different motel, keep moving.

The scent hit him in the lot, outside his room. Something that made the animal raise hackles. Couldn't quite place it in the heavy, floral, salty ocean air. But it was something new, hadn't been there when he left, and he knew better than to ignore the instincts that kept him alive. He palmed the blade from his belt as he approached the door.

Scent was stronger here, male. Why it made the beast growl, he didn't know. Not often human musk was worth noticing... but there was a texture to it... something he couldn't name. Not cologne, not the chemical smell of soap or aftershave. Just a sharpness to it... almost like the air after a lightning strike, something _called_ to him... Something he hadn't smelled since Butcher Bay...

He keyed the door, toed it open with his boot, moving quietly. The room was awash in the scent. Riddick's lips curled back, and he tasted the air. His mouth watered. The silence told him no one was present in the small space. But someone had been here.

His eyes swept the darkened room. Nothing was missing. Everything as he'd left it. Could have been cleaning service. Despite his request with the manager at check-in that he not be disturbed, he'd picked this place for anonymity, not service. But the animal snarled again, panting. His adrenaline was pumping hard as he stalked a circle across the carpet. Caught himself breathing heavy. The predator was in overdrive, and not just from territorial invasion.

Riddick sheathed his knife, wiping a sweaty palm over his black t-shirt. He yanked it off reflexively. Needed to change. Get out of here. But had to get out of blood spattered clothes first. He couldn't think with this aroma messing with his head. The General was awake now, and that fucked with him even more. The throbbing against the fabric of his cargoes was demanding. Pheromones and prison didn't prod anything in his memory, he'd ducked those territorial fights, kept to himself. Never taken a bitch inside. Usually not around long enough to form those kind of relationships. Always passing through.

He licked his lips, shut his eyes. Had to _think._ But the scent _pushed_ at him, even behind closed lids. He sat down roughly on the edge of the bed. Popped buttons on his pants, at least to relieve the pressure. Stroked himself absently, trying to tame his aromatic arousal. Didn't help, the General was at full attention. The animal was wanting to dominate... wanting _this one._ _Violator. Stalker. Hunter..._

That was it. The internal growl became a purr. He'd found it. Another killer. _That_ was the scent. Another alpha predator... hadn't crossed paths in years... not even most mercs had that taste in their sweat. Not since Johns, really. Some bitter note in the blood, some tang that escaped the pores, a note most humans couldn't detect... something feral and electric. Johns had been sick, twisted by other things... wine gone sour. This was... delicious... now that he recognized it. That's why his mouth had watered. He wanted to sink teeth into flesh, taste this one's blood, see his neck exposed in surrender... fight or fuck, it would be a worthy match. He groaned.

He hadn't remembered picking up the lube from the bedside table, but he was caught in the fantasy and didn't dwell on it. The roaring of his blood had focus now, heating and pulsing in his hand. Dreams of an even match, not just the squirming suits he'd been Xing. A _real_ man, someone with training, fast and deadly, smart and silent. Dark and lean, shadows in the moonlight... slashing steel, a connoisseur of the blade like himself. Fuck... yes, someone who could take a cut or two, bleed without cringing, someone who _liked_ the base bloodletting, how it honed the senses, made you work harder, heightened the survival instinct...

Everything between his abdomen and balls was tightening, blood singing in his ears now. He paused, gripping his shaft, pulling. Wanted it to last... draw it out, taking deep breaths, filling his nose with the scent of his rival. Teasing fuck, worse than a woman, games... coming in here, he had to know Riddick would sense him. _Asking_ for death, walking into his lair. _Wanted_ him mad, violent and primal. Like walking up to a Ceauran Sabertooth and punching it in the mouth. Took fucking huge balls, and a confidence of skill to know you'd survive. Another assassin versed in the mind-fuck, seducing you with shadowed paranoia that let you slice yourself to ribbons.

Riddick could almost feel the icy steel on his neck, slow and cold, an invitation. ...to what? Fight or fuck, brawl or ball? Maybe both.. Silent ghostly kisses, hissed promises of cutting silver and submission. Win the battle and the body, both open wide to his appetites and desires. Control he'd have to earn, keep his guard up... oh yes, that'd be worth it. Aching lust in emotional involvement... he didn't let himself get worked up in a hunt, the chase was never that sweet... Being able to unleash his instincts on another, indulge everything he was... good gods... sweat, blood, muscle, adrenaline, intellect.... Fuck... skin hot with exertion, slick and slipping, need conveyed in growls and teeth...

Liquid heat shot down his spine, his back arched. Whispers from his ghost lover, could almost feel him in the room... He'd never dreamed like this, knew he was about to cum, hard. Snarling, mouth wide, breathing hard...

The cord around his neck was noose-tight in less than a second, silent and strong. If anything, the constriction heightened the peak of the orgasm his body had already released. He bucked twice, nearly dragging his captor forward off the bed. His mind was already gone... warring between pleasure and the reflexive need for oxygen. Absolute perfection for two, long, white seconds... and he went down in blackness. Didn't even feel the needle in his neck as the cord relaxed.

Dexter stared down at him dumbly. Confused as to what he'd just done. Something shiny and hot in the back of his mind, having watched this, invaded this intimate moment. The ritual should be, was, cold, calculated.

It was the Passenger's prerogative once he'd returned to the room. Dexter couldn't call it _wrong._ It wasn't. Timing was flawless, a practiced art. But the Passenger had waited... delayed, ogled... caught in this violation of privacy. Personal Passenger porn? Dexter was a little unsettled by his body's reaction. He didn't usually respond to sexual show.

True, there was the biology of his body in direct stimulation, he didn't deny that... he'd had plenty of sex with women, always at their initiation though. Lust, overt arousal in... watching... was utterly new. Need... desire...foreign concepts. Observing his dark Adonis jacking off in the dark room... had been strangely stimulating. Is that why he'd paused? Watched? Admired? Waited?

There wasn't time to contemplate it now, or perhaps there was. He wasn't in the driver seat anyway. This was his other's game, and he played it to his own satisfaction. But now to the dance... and the ballroom was ready. The spotlight moon was rising, the stage set. However it went, this dance would be one to remember. He'd spent extra time in the preparation, for the ritual was god. The Passenger was always the consummate host.

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_Sorry this is taking so long. Hard to do it... right. Want it to be... intelligent? Believable? *snort* whatever... self-critical, and as I've said, never done slash before. Difficult to do with two such strong personalities. I've been watching the first season of "Dex" again. It's helping. Know what else helps? Comments! :P _


	5. Chapter 5

**Dexter:**

Always the consume host, the Passenger had prepared everything down to the little details. That was where the joy was, the satisfaction that brought the greatest release.

It had.

It did.

It would.

Why was he even questioning it? Nervous after so many moonlit waltzes? Wasn't he the professional? Was it natural to still get stage fright, this late in the game, so close to final curtain? To feel that something in his stomach, that ache, some nervous anxiety? Some need to impress his date? How odd...

He stared down at the prone body. Everything was perfect. The rubber sheets, the plastic painters' drop cloths. Every open surface of the barren basement room was sheathed with sheer plastic. No muss, no fuss.

The remodeling for this building had stalled out with a bankrupt contractor. One of the recently departed state developments commissioner's cronies. Ironic, and while the development minister's office was awash in semi-scandalous paperwork and an unfulfilled contract... the building was more or less abandoned. Quiet, unpatrolled, undisturbed. The Passenger's favorite. And since someday these government offices would be reoccupied, the power bill continued to be paid. Much easier for some of Dexter's newer, non-power-cell operated toys.

The laser cutter was one. Better than ordinary electric bone saw. Neat, precise dismemberment and such nice sweet cauterization. Less of that horrid dripping wet stuff. They weren't commercially available yet, reserved for large-scale packing houses and industrial application. Expensive, but very, very refined.

He also had his personal com unit back-linked to his work com. This was special tonight, since his guest was still an enigma. Were he to admit it, Dexter had... rushed this job. Hadn't done his homework, as it were. Had proof, the code was satisfied, several times over. But he didn't know who his special guest was, not really.

He could wait. Take the traditional blood slide, slip a drop in the DNA database at work... but that was like telling the Passenger he could open his Christmas present on New Year's day. Perhaps not the best analogy, considering the dark side was rather impatient to begin the ripping and tearing frenzy of wrapping removal... but, he wasn't quite done packaging the rather impressive present yet anyway.

It was like being caught two inches short of the wrapping paper seam. Dexter had underestimated a bit on how much packing wrap he needed to dress this guest. Minor miscalculation, he was muscular and not overly bulked up, but he was solid, and displaced more mass than Dexter had anticipated, even undressed. He was just... dense. Beautiful, bald and... dense.

The lack of body hair was another pleasant surprise for the Passenger. In the early days, Dexter had been finicky about removing hair, fingernails, broken bits of slough-able DNA. Part of the preparation. His Adonis was marble smooth, obviously having his own personal ritual with blade and body. It was delicious really, how it made the olive skin gleam. The Passenger was giggling like a smitten schoolgirl again. All these adjectives... admiration, artistic, poetic... when had the Passenger become such a connoisseur of the human form? It was positively... Greek of him.

Dexter paused in his binding. That was a new thought. Was it possible the Passenger was... gay? Not just happy, but... batting on his own side of the fence? Now that was a bit discombobulating. Not something he'd ever discussed with Harry growing up.

Dexter had always considered himself asexual, being mostly outside the radius of human emotion and empathy. Teenage imperatives to drown in hormones and mating rituals had been hellishly horrid for young-adult Dexter. Struggling to train the Dark Passenger to _sit, stay _and _heel, _hard enough. Harry was all about 'faking' human interaction. Being _normal_. And while certain religions and cultures still handled homosexuality with kid gloves, it wasn't in the major mean of ye average intergalactic citizen. Harry had never asked... Dexter never could tell. It hadn't occurred to him. But the blatant admiration and coy kittenishness of the other tonight... perhaps...?

No. It had no place in this arena. This was sacred space. This was where ceremony and order were law. That was where the joy, the satisfaction was. There would be time to dissect the disaffecting way the Passenger was behaving later, _after._ This was not a psycho-sexual experience. Dexter was definitely damaged, but not in that way. Adonis had a date with justice, a metal-edged trial and execution. He had murdered. Multiple times. He was subject to the code. Reservation, confirmation, arrival. And he had impeccable credentials.

The beep from the bench behind him told him the DNA database had done its duty, and after a half-hour of scanning the different state, local, planetary, inter-system and other galactic criminal databases, it had found a match. Twenty-five minutes wasn't bad really, considering he'd had to reduce the siphoned bandwith connection to keep his activity below the radar. He left tall, dark and drugged and turned his attention to the database findings. And if he'd had a teacup, he would have dropped it on the floor. And steady, sure, unflappable Dexter was not the teacup dropping type.

Riddick, Richard B.

Oh, my, my my... now that was a thought. Surely not. Why hadn't it kicked back Jack the Ripper? Ted Bundy? Serburn "Slash" Stevens? This had to be a joke. This guy couldn't be... It was like BTK or the Unibomber, Zodiac or Spacecowboy Q. Dormant, uncatchable. Presumed dead. Stories... they reached even the inner planets, like old cowboy frontier tales. Notorious outlaws, inhuman anti-heroes that grizzled mercs and triple max slam guards told the new guy stories about. This was not... he had not found... his dream date wasn't... it didn't...

This was prom-date-vid-star-lottery-winner dream stuff. Living legend. Dexter's super star no-restrictions on time and space wish list. He'd have to check the database again. May as well get the scalpel wet.

He put on the gloves, smoothed the rubber apron. Grabbed the silver instrument and eye dropper from the tray. This was the ritual. This was the trophy. The blood for the slide, and another drop for the DNA tester.

He hovered a moment, staring down at his drugged playmate. Pretty, so pretty. Seemed a shame to mar his face. But... rules were rules, and rituals were rituals. He pressed the sharp blade into the smooth flesh of the cheek.

Riddick's eyes shot open, and for a moment Dexter had the perfect view of twin moons reflected in his eyes. Glorious, luminous, gibbous. Like the giant globe that lit his Passenger-perfect world had come to rest in his adversary's optic nerves. A moment suspended, stretched, like a slight ripple in an undisturbed pond... and then the pain registered, and the face before him twisted; eyes narrowed to slits.

"What the fuck?" Riddick strained against his bonds, wincing at the lights. Dexter paused, almost backing up a step as the other fought against the crinkling, screeching stretch-wrap. "You a fuckin' doctor? Don't look like a merc..." The ear-splitting noise of plastic wrap sliding along itself filled the room. _Oh shit.. _Dexter thought_, not done... like Little Chino..._

Riddick sat up, still fighting the drugs in his system. Didn't look like a med bay, and this dude didn't look like a doctor... He ripped at the plastic encasing his legs, was off the table in a second. He'd been in some weird situations, trussed up a hundred different ways, but naked, in plastic? That was a new one. Fucking morbid.

Dexter's mouth moved, still reeling from that stare. Took him a minute to cognitively recover._ Eyeshine._ His victim - Riddick - had the eyeshine. He'd heard of it, another myth about the wild-frontier outer planets. Something miners got, or settlers on sunless dark-sider planets. But that was like... amputation or adding a third limb - nightmare stories, not fact, and not staring him in the face.

To see in the dark... what a thought. It was so beautiful... the moon in his eyes. And oh shit, right in his face!

Riddick pushed him against the wall, Dexter's own killing blade from the tray against his neck. He'd hesitated. But the other hadn't run like Chino. No... he was in his face - and growling.

"I asked you a question."

"What?" Dexter's face was blank. Not exactly afraid, just confused. Interesting.

"Are you a doctor? A merc, what?"

"Oh." Dexter took a second to understand, lost in the gravel snarl and the press of steel against his vein. His heart was racing, and the Passenger was very amused by this. Which didn't help. "No. I'm not a doctor. And I'm not a mercenary."

"Then what is this shit?" Riddick was still adjusting. The room smelled antiseptic, but musty. His memory was still thinking prison med ward, or military transport ship. How he'd gotten here... still fuzzy, but this man, his smell... he growled again, low in his throat. Why didn't he smell fear on this guy? Why did he smell familiar? He'd been in his hotel room... "You fuckin' nab me for someone? What's the bounty?" He pressed the tip of the knife against the skin.

Dexter blinked. "Just for me. For this." For some reason, honesty seemed best. He'd had this conversation before, but usually the other was upside down, on the table.

"Been a long time since someone got the drop on me," Riddick's eyes narrowed. "Still haven't told me what this shit is about. "

"I was going to kill you."

"A lot of people wanna do that. You gotta be more specific."

"You kill people." Riddick smirked.

"A lot of people kill people. And you're doing the same thing. Twisted circle, ain't it?"  
"I have a code."

"So what, I don't? You saw who I was taking out."

"You were doing it for money."

"And what are you doing it for?"

"Because... it's who I am." Riddick narrowed his eyes, smiled bitterly, relaxing a little.

"Ever consider that's what I'm doing too? Everyone I've killed deserved it. Believe me, no one is innocent." He turned, and walked over to the table then. Deliberately showing his back, placing Dexter's blade down next to him as he ran his hands over the neat pile of his belongings. Fucker was anal. Had folded everything. Even brought his shirt. His shivs were on display in an organized line above his clothes. He grabbed his arm sheath first, strapping it over his left forearm.

Dexter stared at the naked man a few steps away. He'd let him go. Just... walked away. Daring him to attack, reclaim him as victim. The Dark Passenger's instinct fluttered hot in his belly. This was a challenge, and an insult. Riddick stood there, naked as sin, ignoring him. Dexter's eyes flicked to the medical tray, to his blades, the bone saw, the scissors, the scalpel.

"Don't." The words came before he even took a step. "You lost. I'm the bigger evil here. You got the drop on me once. It won't happen again." Riddick was holding up one of his blades to the light, still not making a move for his clothing. Arrogant. Uncaring. He picked up his boots, dropped them on the floor next to him. Dexter felt his muscles tighten. The Passenger saw red. This was not how this was supposed to go. And this other was making a _mess._

Riddick switched off the light on the table, shoving aside the plastic bags and neatly laid tools. The adrenaline rush of the pain, the fight/flight kick back to consciousness was fading, and he was still mildly groggy. It irritated him. Didn't show it, but he felt off. He'd woken up panicked, the beast roaring, that was new too. It was that fucking smell. Still messing with him. Too used to mercs and beatings and chains. That was predictable, familiar. He hated the military, hated the slams, but they were a system he was used to. This was a psycho. A very attractive, very deadly, unpredictable adversary. And if he admitted it, the sharp bile of fear was in his throat. He'd almost been taken down, utterly unconscious. The animal side was furious, it was like dying in cryo- fucking euthanized. Not a warrior's death, a blaze of blood and glory- his Furyan side screaming in shame.

Riddick waited. He'd given doc-boy the opportunity to walk away - not that the beast would let him out alive if he retreated. The other was silent, waiting like him, and it charged the air. The beast coiled...

Dexter could see the slight ripple go through Riddick's muscles. He was still moving, touching things, but his movements were too precise, deliberately casual. The tension in the silent room had ratcheted up 200% in the last 10 seconds. And Dexter could barely hold the Passenger back from the red-hazed madness of slashing out. And he was losing the battle of wills. It wanted to carve, to gut, to cut. It was its right. It had been good. It had waited. The arrogance of the other was unbearable. It wanted release - now.

Dexter didn't remember moving, reaching for the silver on the tray, but he was suddenly bent over the table Riddick had occupied, face pressed against the rubber sheet.

"Told you not to try it." The baritone snarl was hot in his ear. Steel on his neck again, different knife this time, one of Riddick's serrated hunting blades. Dex had admired it briefly, considered keeping it for another day. The Passenger wasn't interested in this idle thought, it surged, trying to break the hold of the body over it. Its growl was met with another deeper one.

"You're a quick fucker, I'll give you that." Riddick taunted as he ran the blade back from his ear along the hairline, slicing shallow, drawing blood. This close to his neck, the pulse pounding, tendons bunched, Riddick had to couch the animal reflex to bite the exposed flesh there, lick the beading red line. His breath hitched. Remembering his earlier fantasy. He wanted to see more skin. A double flick and the apron straps around Dexter's neck dropped. Dexter made a surprised noise and Riddick chuckled, snaking fingers under his shirt collar.

"You're overdressed for this fight, doc." He let the words drip slow as he slid the cold blade flat against Dexter's skin, tearing the gray fabric slowly, stretched threads parting reluctantly one at a time. Riddick smelled his adversary's temperature rise, sweat beading with frustration, anger, confusion. That musky scent of the challenged alpha was thickening. The beast in him bared fangs in an anticipatory grin. The sweet tang of the blood in the air made him salivate, and Dexter's exposed shoulder was too much to resist now. He ran his tongue, teeth over the shallow red trail, bit down, forcing more of the copper salt into his mouth.

Dexter went rigid under him. The feel of Riddick's mouth on him was erotic, and humiliating. He'd expected the bite, the tear of flesh after he'd exposed his neck - this mass-murderer's exploits were inhuman myth. He was a blood drinker, a cannibal, a dismembering demon.

The cut of the knife, the smell of his own blood had panicked Dexter, sent him dropping into darkness, stopped fighting the Passenger's insistent roar. But that laving tongue... sent signals north and south along different nerveways. Was this twisted fuck teasing him before he killed him? Returning the humiliation for his own exposed near-death? All he could hear was his heart pounding in his ears, and that strange growling purr from his captor. His hips pressed hard against Dexter's back.

"Thought you worked clean," Dexter muttered, trying to ignore the insistent warmth spreading through his body. He was searching for a weakness in the other, something to give him a second to throw him off. The mouth on his shoulder stopped, he felt teeth grind behind them. Riddick was grinning again.

"Appealing to my vanity? I ain't like you, Doc. I don't have a stick up my ass about my M.O. I'm an opportunist. I use what's at hand. Play it by ear." He growled again, and sank teeth into the soft flesh of Dexter's ear, making him hiss.

"Stop. Fucking. Calling. Me. Doc. It's Dexter." Irritation, embarrassment at his enjoyment had made him angry again, cut through the paralyzing fear. Riddick ignored him.

"You know I killed a man once with a metal cup? Hmm... but I prefer knives," he flicked the blade over in his hand, for Dexter to see, then brought it over his shoulder again, tracing down his back, to the apron tie, hooked it and flicked. Grabbed the loose fabric and pulled it away from Dexter's waist. Brought the blade down along his side, around by his exposed abdomen, stomach. Scratched the edge along his skin as he flipped it, so the hooked tip was facing down. "They're versatile. But I'm good at using tools..." he was crooning again, and that soft, deadly tone made Dexter shiver, more than the metal against his flesh. Riddick snagged the blade on his pants, pulling it out a bit, catching the button hole. So deadly precise, and so close to...

Dexter blushed now. Why couldn't he just gut him and be done with it? This was hellish...what did he hope to accomplish doing this to him? The Passenger was strangely silent, gauging... no longer sure. Riddick suddenly set the knife down on the table, splayed fingers spread over it.

"Tools," he repeated, fingers sliding back. "Whatever comes to hand." And he plunged his hand roughly down the front of Dexter's open pants, growling appreciatively at the growing mound of flesh that met his fingers. Dexter made a strangled cry, horrified at the exposure of his obvious arousal. His hips thrust reflexively against the groping hand shoving back confining fabric, freeing his erection. But he fought it mentally, still reeling at his easy seduction.

Riddick felt his own desire charge maddeningly. He relaxed his hold on Dexter's neck, just enough to force him to straighten in his arms, flush and rigid against his heating body. The taunt flesh in his stroking hand felt good, warm and wanting. Another thick wave of desire slipped along his nerves, and the beast hummed deep, audibly. The General was pressing hard against the other man - Dexter's- ass and lower back. He still tasted of fear, confusion... but the sweet note of thickening need was growing more pungent.

"Dexter," his name, hissed against his back, a dark caress that circled him like the rough insistent fingers over his manhood. He arched, thrust against the teasing fingers, eyes closing as his head lolled to the side. The Passenger was pushing hard on him to just accept this, let the sensations rule. It felt so new, intense and pleasurable, wanting. That was so novel... craving, desiring, something, someone, sexual...

Riddick saw the exposed neck, the soft white flesh, cut and vulnerable, and clamped down on it again. Blood, flesh, sweat... hot and pressed to his tongue, Dexter moving with him, bending into the bite, surrendering, offering, languid and yielding suddenly. Riddick gripped his manhood tighter, rubbing his thumb lightly over the head of Dexter's penis, earning him another groan.

"Don't tell me you never had someone do this for you, Doc? No pretty girlfriend to jack you off? Get kinky in the shower or hot tub? Stand in front of the mirror naked and let someone else's hand work you over like this? Hot guy like you can't have lacked for company... bet the ladies just threw themselves at you..."

"Not... not like... this," Dexter was having trouble keeping coherent. Rita... never had the interest, the aggression, the confidence, to work him like this... and never so rough. Large hands... sure and masculine, knowing exactly what was good... where, how to touch... And the occasional brush over his balls, sweeping press of fingers under his scrotum and then back to work his shaft... nowhere near as brutal as the teeth on his shoulder, neck... the press of thick smooth muscle against his sweaty skin... the press of something else, hot and insistent, frighteningly hard against his lower back.

"I don't... I'm not..." Dexter choked out the words.

"What? Gay?" Riddick laughed now, moving his mouth to the other's ear again. "Neither am I, doc, but I don't think either of us plays by society's rules, now do we?"

"I... never... with a man... I," Dexter was stuttering, lost in the sweet circling pleasure, languid building of tension... something he usually only felt after killing - a slick, snaking rush of a well executed... execution. Shit, even his vocabulary was failing him.

"Mmm... so you've never had any anal play? Girl stick her finger up your ass while you pounded her senseless?" Riddick slid his restraining hand over Dexter's pectorals, pinching his nipple, earning him another hiss. Shit, this was like dealin' with a virgin... but it was so much _fun. _This guy was wound so tight his nerves responded to the slightest touch.

He slid calloused fingers over Dexter's tight abs, grunting appreciatively again at the other's tight frame - fucker was well built, if lean, and the reddish trails of body hair were so soft. He continued the caress, sliding around to his hip, finally yanking down the pants with a predatory snarl. Dexter stiffened, surprised, and Riddick bit his left shoulder this time, alpha display, as he rubbed himself hard against the tight ass cheeks he'd exposed.

The bite, the thrust - Dexter's hands came down on the table again, over the knife laid out there. The hand on his cock tightened, and Riddick chuckled, licked back up to his left ear. "Gonna cut me now doc? Suppose it's only fair. " He lifted his left wrist, held his hand out, while he lazily continued to stroke Dexter's dick. "You wanna drink my blood, doc? It's quite a rush... I usually like to mix it with some schnapps myself - cuts down on the bitterness."

Dexter shivered, fingers still tenting the knife. Riddick was sucking on his neck again, rubbing his cock against Dexter's buttocks, utterly unconcerned. He didn't know how deep Dexter's aversion to the red stuff ran... how disordered bleeding messed with him. For Riddick, it was a turn on, but not for him. He shook his head.

"Not... my style," he muttered, shoving the knife off the table, out of reach. The gravity of what he'd done hit him a second later, when Riddick's outstretched hand clamped hard on his neck, nearly choking him.

"You're _mine_ then!" Riddick growled, claiming his surrender. He scraped teeth from one shoulder around to the other, leaving a trail of welts and bloodied bruises. It was a violent marking, dancing Dexter's nerves back and forth over the edges of pleasure-pain. "Don't move." The command was harsh, guttural, and delivered with a tightening throttle around his windpipe. Dexter stiffened - as much from the threat as the sudden cold rush of air across his skin. He bit his tongue against the momentary solitude, the removal of the stifling heat of Riddick's solid mass sliding against damp skin. The sweat, the blood, sudden ice in exposure. The Passenger wailed, denied again. Dexter' shoulder's hunched, he straightened.

"I said '_don't move_', " the snarl in his ear was harsh as the wall of heat encased him again, shoving him back against the table. Cool hand on his dick again, slick with something... and then a finger pushed hard into his rectum, making his cry out. "Woulda been easier if you listened, but you don't take direction well, do you, doc?"

It _hurt_, the sudden thrust, cold and invasive. Dexter couldn't think as he reflexively clenched down on the digit. He couldn't move, balanced delicately between Riddick's hands, too dangerous... and the strange, violent helplessness snapped another synapse in his brain, turning liquid and hot as the discomfort faded to acceptance and his muscles relaxed.

Riddick smiled against his shoulder, feeling him relax. Good thing the anal-retentive fucker had brought _everything_ from his room, the lube should help him get the goddamn stick outta doc-boy's ass, and make room for something better. He growled, biting down again on Dexter's shoulder as he moved his finger slowly, matching thrusting movements with his other hand over Dexter's penis.

A few quick movements and he added a second finger, pushing past the resistant ring of muscles deeper... increasing the friction. He could feel Dexter giving in, the unfamiliar sensations of invasion sparking something deeper, an aching want... mixing with the rising pleasure of the slippery fist pumping his cock. Giving over to the back-n-forth rhythm Riddick had trapped him in, the see-saw of erotic tension coiling around him like a rising snake. His orgasm was building in the back of his brain and he suddenly didn't care if Riddick shoved his whole damn fist up his ass because it felt _that good_ right now and he...

Riddick felt him seize up inside, the beast in him demanding its own satisfaction as it smelled, felt the utter surrender of the adversary in his arms. Glory, triumph, watching, feeling Dexter succumb to the explosion of dopamine, the spring uncoiled, the muscular convulsions as he finally screamed in release. Beautiful violence, utterly uncontrolled - the kind Riddick loved more than anything. Orchestrated at _his_ command. Fucking fantastic - and almost as good as getting off himself. Almost.

"Not done yet, doc," he purred softly as Dexter panted limply under him. He shifted slightly, moving hands over Dexter's hips, massaging him gently, pressing his own throbbing cock against the soft relaxed cheeks of Dexter's ass. It would still be tight as hell, even with Dex relaxed like this, but so much easier to enjoy with him not fighting. Wear a fucking enemy down and then snake up under his defenses... Worked in battle, worked in bed.

"Don't..." Dexter could still barely breath. So far gone... the stars hadn't faded. His heart was slamming in his chest, his limbs felt like jelly. Waves of pleasure still lapping behind his eyes. Speaking was hard.

"Don't what?" Riddick growled darkly, warningly. His grip became rough, bruisingly tight as his anger rose. Fucker think he could say no at this point? Still gonna fight what was his to take? He was gonna have this one way or another, and if he'd misjudged this fucker... Dexter's hands moved over his, nails biting as he gripped the meat of his palms.

"Don't... call me 'doc', dammit." Dexter hissed. Riddick made a noise, somewhere between a laugh and a grunt.

"I'll fuckin' call you 'Mary' if I want, _Dexter_," he snarled as he shoved into him, hard, sudden, deep. Dexter groaned, bucking reflexively. The pressure was brutal, but he paused, waiting for Dexter to relax before he moved again. Tight, really tight, but that's what he liked about ass-fucking. The friction and the tightness, fighting the clamp of the ringed muscles, the dragging pressure. The General never lasted long when he backdoored it, but oh, that invasive pounding felt good. Guys were better for it since the prostate meant they'd get off directly too, gave him something to focus on, push for, hold on and work a little more. Cuz then they'd tighten up too, milk him if they came together, and since his little Mary was an ass virgin anyway, he had that pride thing of getting Dex off too.

Riddick wanted to just pound him, but he kept his thrusts slow, even. Dexter had relaxed, as much as he could. It was unexpectedly smooth and hot, still hurt, but in that same twinned, pleasurable way that being bit on the shoulder did. Fear and need, paradoxically coexisting in a place where there was usually... nothing. Emptiness. Hardly empty now... he'd been forced to accept this, but now wanted it, needed it, to continue. Invasion, broken open... the Passenger was drinking this all in greedily, masochistically - the sadist sated. Left Dexter in a very strange, but not unpleasant place.

"Bite me," Dexter said, suddenly, dreamily.

"What?" Riddick was concentrating on keeping it even, leashing the beast.

"Bite me again," Dexter squirmed a bit, clenching down, making Riddick hiss. "I need to feel your teeth again. Just do it, please." Riddick growled, eyes focusing on the slick muscles at Dexter's collar, sweaty, red, already a mass of bites and bruises. The right side, the crusted welt of the knifemark suddenly reawakened that primal bloodlust and he lunged, latched on - the animal side snapping its chain.

Dexter moaned, and arched back, the pain hot and demanding on his shoulder. But it was his knife-edge, that dark dance with pleasure... the hot sparks of violent enjoyment at the base of his spine structurally changing the chemical agony... the ache of want as Riddick's pounding became faster, frantic and unchecked. And he _liked_ it, _wanted_ it, _needed _it.

Riddick was utterly lost in sensation. His dream, his conquest, his absurd fantasy made real. The other letting him take him unleashed, unfettered... wanting the violence, the blood, _asking_ for it. Let the beast, the Furyan in him rule unchecked. Merciless and primal, only a man could take this, match him, free him this way. Building to an ultimate climax, and he was close - pushing deeper, harder, balls slapping loudly as he reamed his partner's ass.

"Fuck, Dexter..." he couldn't even come up with something foully endearing to call him. He couldn't _think_ period, reduced to guttural moans between clenched teeth as he rode higher, feeling, hearing Dexter suddenly pushing for his own release. The blood, the sweat, the semen - the pheromonal perfume mixing smells and textures in his mind, Riddick felt the tension compress between his brain and spine and then... explode.

For a few breathless seconds, he could see normal colors - whites, reds, orange-browns, yellows... the side of the spectrum he hadn't seen in decades.... then his eyes rolled, blown back by the sweet, hot pleasure that drown his other senses. Collapsing, spent, on Dexter's back, only able to feel the pound of blood in his heart, and the equally rabbiting heartbeat underneath his bulk.

Dexter was lost himself in release... his _second_, he could barely comprehend that. Never twice, never so quickly, so intensely... such a foreign thing, pleasure... filling that deep empty place inside. _La petite mort_, the French called it - the little death. A sudden insight for the Dark Defender. Pleasure in death, another way, one cut at a time... perhaps another way to sate the Passenger. Violent, bloody, messy... society would still not be thrilled with his esthetic choices, but... here was a new game to play, and a new partner to play it with.

Love? No, never something so simple and cliche. But understanding, respect... something gleaming like silver, steel-sharp and violent, reflecting light between them. Connoisseurs of the blade, mutual admiration... and the moon forever smiling on its servants: the Scalpel and the Shiv.

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_meh, needs editing... but since ppl have tagged it for updates, I feel compelled to post what I have. *blush* thank you. Hard to do the boys credibly, and I obsess... I was going to put quotes from "Dexter" in here, but I'm still sorting them out. Thank you for reading, this is my first slash... so whatever. _

_If you liked it, thank you. If you don't - write something better - seriously! I'd love read it!_


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